


Seven

by HastaLux



Series: Numerics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Greg's Above Average Size, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: Mycroft engages in one of his "surprise meetings" with the DS that Sherlock has recently begun to assist and finds himself to be the one surprised, in more ways than one.





	Seven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [End Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703886) by [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth). 



> Inspired by a discussion on Tumblr regarding Greg's, uh... size.... as depicted in End Game (which you should really read if you haven't yet.)

It is challenging to arrange the casual abduction of a member of Scotland Yard. Mycroft could manage it, of course, but then he’d have to explain why he did so to a few interested parties in MI-5, and as he’d really rather not explain the nature of his calls on those expressing interest in Sherlock, he has arranged to lurk outside Lestrade’s flat to wait for him after he finishes his morning run, which conveniently begins around 5am.

At 5:45am, Lestrade returns to find Mycroft carefully posed in his doorway, umbrella in hand. Though Mycroft has to admit the sight of Greg dishevelled and sweating is… pleasing, in some fundamental way, he must keep to the script, for Sherlock’s sake. “DS Lestrade, isn’t it?”

Lestrade arches a brow. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet. I’ve come to ask about your connection to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I have a vested interest in his well-being.”

“You… ah.” Lestrade smiles. “You’re the brother.”

“I- Sherlock mentioned me?” That’s a surprise. Sherlock usually either disregards his existence entirely or says that he’s dead. 

“Not quite, but I’ve read his file. You were his emergency contact when he was in rehab.”

“Those are confidential files!”

“The time it was court-ordered isn’t.” 

Mycroft huffs and makes a mental note to have his people delete the offending paperwork later. “Very well. I wonder, do you plan to continue your association with him?”

“Why don’t you come in?”

“I would- come in?” Greg- he doesn’t really seem like a Greg, now that Mycroft is this close to him, it isn’t noble enough for his features and his full name is far superior- is already pushing past him, reaching for the door. 

“Yeah, this conversation is a bit silly to have outside and I’ve got to make up a brekkie anyway. You take coffee? Tea?”

“Er. Tea?” 

“Great.”

“But- you hardly know me, I could be misrepresenting myself entirely-”

Greg grins back as he jogs up the stairs. “No doubts on that count, mate, you’re definitely a Holmes.”

Mycroft frowns. What did that mean? And how on earth is Greg- Gregory, Mycroft mentally amends, as it does suit him better whether the man knows it or not- managing to set him so off-balance so quickly? His own file on Lestrade indicated nothing of the sort of specialized interrogation training it usually took to put Mycroft on his heels. “So you do plan to-”

“Yeah,” Gregory puts on the kettle, leaving Mycroft in his somewhat disarranged kitchen, “your brother’s a useful git, when he isn’t sticking a needle in his arm. Happy to keep him occupied.”

Right. This is thankfully back onto Mycroft’s anticipated script. “If you were able to pass on regular details of his activities to me, I would be happy to compensate-”

“No.” 

Mycroft arches a ginger brow. “Without hearing a sum?”

“Listen, I like your brother. He needs a few people he can actually trust looking out for him, and I’d like to keep that brain of his on the right side of the law.” Gregory sets a cup in front of Mycroft. “There’s your tea, milk’s in the fridge and sugar’s on the counter, ‘fraid I have a bit of a schedule to keep to in the mornings so you’ll have to get it yourself.” He carries off a cup of coffee for himself into the bedroom, and Mycroft can hear the shower kick on. “You do realize you offering money for people to spy on him is probably why he doesn’t want to talk to you, right?”

His sigh blows a puff off steam off the tea. That was hardly the only reason Sherlock didn’t wish to speak to him. Gregory is more interesting than he expected, however. But… Mycroft glances around the flat. His research had indicated a wife who was clearly not present. He analyzes the state of the kitchen, the empty bottles by the couch- signs of a bachelor life, but recent. And… reoccuring, judging from the contents of the fridge. Ah. Frequent periods of estrangement. Unfortunate. But sadly not terribly unusual in police relationships. 

Mycroft shifts to the doorway of the bedroom to ensure Gregory can still hear him. “Would it change your mind if the sum of money involved is… significant?”

“‘Fraid not.” The shower goes off with a slight screech. Old tap, Mycroft imagines. Gregory could use the money, but his sense of personal honor won’t let him take it. The door to the bathroom opens, letting steam roll out into the bedroom. And- _oh._ Mycroft hears a strained noise and quickly retreats to the kitchen before Gregory can catch him staring, sitting with his back to the bedroom, only realizing as he sits that the source of the noise was himself. _Christ._ That hadn’t been in the file either, not that there was any reason someone should have put it in, but Gregory is decidedly above average. _Notably_ above average. Which was… startling. Yes. That had to be it, mere surprise that inspired the flushed feeling now creeping over his collar.

Mycroft clears his throat and sips his tea. His mind keeps supplying useless information ( _seven inches or so, comparing to the size of the tile and assuming a five foot distance from the wall_ ) and will not take his commands to quiet ( _the running must be working for him, he’s fit even compared to younger men_ ). He puts a pair of shaking fingers to his temple. 

“Want any toast?” Gregory wanders back out with his hair still damp and his shirt unbuttoned, popping two pieces of bread in before vanishing into the bedroom again. “I’ve got butter and jam. Probably still some marmalade somewhere as well.”

“No… thank you.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Mycroft tries to set his breathing back to normal. “Are you certain there is no way you would-”

“Listen mate, if he’s relapsing or getting arrested I’ll give you a call.” Gregory slips back out, this time with the shirt buttoned and tucked and just pulling on a jacket, then setting his phone on the table. “Here, put your number in my phone.”

Mycroft purses his lips. He doesn’t give people his true number- he calls them, if he needs to, and it would never show the real thing… but he does worry about Sherlock and Gregory was unlikely, from what he had seen so far, to abuse the privilege of having a direct line. He puts it under MH, on the off chance Gregory’s phone is ever lost. It’s a forwarding number, but one that won’t route through any of his assistants- it was designed for him to give out. He had just never felt inclined to do so before. 

“Cheers,” Gregory says, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and setting his empty mug in the sink. Lord knows when he had time to drink his coffee- maybe he drinks it in the shower? The idea brings up another round of inconvenient brain activity, this time envisioning Gregory nude, wet, and with mug in hand. _Get yourself under control, Holmes._ “I’ve got to run for the tube. Pleasant chatting with you.”

Ah, yes. Working hours. Mycroft rises and sees himself to the door. “Likewise. And you will give me a ring-”

“If there’s anything major, yeah. Ta!”

Mycroft is standing distractedly by the curb, watching Gregory jog away, when his car pulls up. Anthea waits in the back, stack of paperwork beside her. “Did he take it?”

“Hm? Ah. No.” He was flushing again. Why couldn’t he stop it?

Anthea arches a brow. “Really? That’s promising.” 

“Isn’t it.” He lifts the first folder in the pile and flips through it. Work. Work will help him refocus. He just has to stop summoning the image of Gregory’s-

“Sir?”

“Hm?”

“You just said ‘seven’. Should I be taking notes on-”

“Oh, no, no, just thinking aloud.”

“...alright.”

Mycroft swallows. His phone buzzes. 

_This is Greg_

_Wasn’t sure if you had my number_

_Figured it’s fair since I have yours_

He stared at it, running his tongue over his teeth. He loathed texting, generally, but he could see the use of it. 

_Thank you, Gregory.  
Mycroft Holmes_

Mycroft took a breath. He had the lingering feeling of something being… off. Changed. But he couldn’t identify it. And Anthea was staring at him again. He shifted his eyes to hers. “Why don’t you go over my meetings today now, since we’ve an early start to things. And if you could arrange a coffee for when I arrive that would be much appreciated.”

“A coffee?” She looked positively stunned. “You never take coffee.”

“I have been given impetus to try it.” He settles back into his seat. Work. Think of work, and time can be allotted for other thoughts over the coffee. Compartmentalize. That will help. He breathes. “Proceed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Mottlemoth and theredheadinquestion for the discourse and crookedlypurplecreation for asking the question.


End file.
